


The Rivals

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [18]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Pre-Smaug, life in erebor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: When Thorin met Dwalin.





	

Thorin remembered the first time he had seen Dwalin. Fundin had brought him to one of Erebor’s council sessions, probably in an attempt to influence him towards politics like his elder brother Balin. Thorin was young, barely seventeen years old, and he’d only recently been allowed to observe the meetings as part of his lessons with Mister Balin and grandfather. He thought Balin was a little boring, even if he was nice enough for a tutor.

Thorin knew that councillor Fundin was some sort of cousin of his, but not closely connected. Fundin had lived with his family in the Iron Hills before arriving in Erebor, and only Balin had gone with him at first, court gossip being that he’d recognised his One at the absurdly young age of 25. Lady Sigrún had stayed in the Iron Hills with the younger son and Thorin was curious. Balin had never wanted to talk about things that didn’t pertain to the lesson of the day if he could help it, and Thorin studied the newcomers keenly. This younger brother looked nothing like Balin, however. Balin was slight, for a dwarf, with his mother’s blue hair and an even temper that even the most dedicated dwarfling _could not_ fray. Thorin had tried. Frerin had tried too, even though he wasn't Balin's pupil, but Mister Balin was _impossible_.

Dwalin scowled at him. Behind him, Balin put a restraining hand forward, and Thorin knew how deceptively strong that hand would be clamped tight around a mischief-seeking dwarfling’s shoulder. He tried to smile conspiratorially at Dwalin, but the newcomer ignored him blatantly. In that moment, Thorin decided that he would hate Dwalin forever. Setting out to prove his feelings immediately, he glared hard at the other dwarf. He was ignoring his grandfather’s fond welcome of the boy’s father entirely, consumed by the strength of the glare Dwalin sent back. Dwalin cracked his knuckles and Thorin bared his teeth.

 

After the council session, Thorin’s rage still simmered. Not only did he have to spend time at least pretending to pay attention to simpering nobles, but he was not allowed to join the discussion either and it rankled. He was young, yes, but he wanted to help. Grandfather was always so preoccupied and Thorin wanted to take his share of the burden. He was the Heir, after all, it was his duty. Thorin rather dismissed the fact that he was the Heir of the Crown Prince, for Thraín never made much spectacle of his status. Thorin did not understand his father’s apparent lack of care. Adad never came to council, unless the matter discussed involved structural engineering, and then only as the Guild Master of the Brotherhood of Stone. Thraín showed up at official events, dressed and decorated as befitting a Crown Prince, but Thorin knew his father was happiest in his messy workshop, surrounded by plans and calculations. He seemed content to leave ruling to Thrór, and devoting himself to his wife and children, to running the Brotherhood of Stone – the engineering guild of Erebor.

When Frerin arrived to drag him off to the sparring rings for their afternoon lessons, Thorin went happily, thinking of nothing more than his desire for a good workout to relieve the frustrations of his morning. He did not expect to see Dwalin there, smirking a challenge at him. The son of Fundin was moving through his axe forms when the two princes arrived, oddly graceful even though he obviously had not grown into his own size yet. Thorin was intrigued. Dwalin was already half a head taller than him, and being fairly tall for his own age, Thorin rarely had opportunity to spar with someone larger than him who wasn’t fully grown. He could feel Dwalin’s eyes on him all through his own warm-ups, though he quickly realised that the tall dwarf was busy having his arse handed to him by Verrún, the arms master, and therefore the eyes he could feel on the back of his neck could not be Dwalin’s. It didn’t stop Thorin from glaring right back, of course, his bad mood making his temper shorter than usual. Even Frerin’s sunny disposition could not penetrate his glum thoughts. With a final flourish, Verrún had Dwalin disarmed and on his back on the arena floor. Thorin couldn’t help but grin. Verrún always put newcomers brutally through their paces and he did not envy Dwalin the bruises the Master was sure to have left. With a wave of the hand, Verrún summoned a young guard, who took Dwalin off to the side to demonstrate all the moves he did not perform to her satisfaction. Verrún believed that the best way to teach the recruits and students was to make them teach each other under her supervision, and if the guard recruit missed anything in the rundown of Dwalin’s mistakes, Verrún would punish her.

Thorin stepped up. He did not spar with the master often, and Verrún gave him no quarter for being a prince, something Thorin had initially resented, but as the years went by he learned to appreciate Verrún’s gruff silence. No one knew how she had lost the ability to speak, and trying to convince newbies of the most outlandish rumours was part and parcel of being one of Verrún’s students. He could hear the guard recruit filling Dwalin in; apparently, this week, some wicked Men had cut out Verrún’s tongue in a fit of jealousy because Verrún had had the most beautiful voice. Thorin smirked, but his inattentiveness cost him a hard blow to the ribs. Verrún scowled. Thorin always wondered how his teacher could say so much with only the slightest twitch of an eyebrow, but, even with both hands occupied, Verrún managed to convey disappointment easily. He winced slightly, but moved back into the proper stance and position.

After Verrún had thoroughly trounced him, Thorin had sparred with a few of the other swordsmen. He had not consciously kept an eye on Dwalin’s hulking figure, but the dwarf’s bulk was hard to ignore. Dwalin was not far off his adult size, Thorin thought, and after that he would probably just grow in muscle. The image was oddly intriguing, but he shook it off quickly. He should not be daydreaming about the future of his hated rival.

He did not get to spar with Dwalin that day, nor any day that week.

In fact, it was several months before he met the large dwarf in the ring, and then it was a fight with maces, a weapon neither of them favoured. Thorin knew that it was important to be capable with any weapon, anything could happen on a battlefield after all, but he had never been fond of maces. They were evenly matched in skill, Thorin slightly faster on his feet, but Dwalin far stronger. His larger frame gave him a minor advantage, which Thorin would complain about – loudly and at great length over the next few days – when he found himself underneath Dwalin after a blow that had chased all the air from his lungs. Dwalin simply smirked down at him and silently offered him a hand up. Thorin scowled, disregarding the offered help and getting to his own feet.

The rivalry only continued. The two young dwarrow continued to butt heads in the sparring rings, Dwalin believing the prince to be a dour snob and Thorin doing his level best to keep on hating the younger dwarf despite finding his dry humour funny and his mind intriguing. Dwalin was the perfect physical example of everything a warrior forged by Mahal should be, he often heard, but those who saw only his physical strength and promising skill with his axes, were missing the point, in Thorin’s opinion. Dwalin had a mind that – while not tuned towards diplomacy and politics like Balin’s – was still remarkably quick and clever. Dwalin had the rare – in Thorin’s experience, at least, when it came to nobles – skill of actually thinking before committing himself to saying something. This practise often made people think he was slow of mind, but Dwalin simply seemed disinterested in wasting breath on an unfinished thought; unlike so many dwarrow in his grandfather’s court, who were perfectly happy to say nothing of value just to hear the sound of their own voices. He was peaceful company that way, to Thorin’s mind, which was why he only put up a token protest when his father decided that the younger son of Fundin would be a good companion for him. Dwalin was not his guard – not yet – but it was heavily implied to both boys that Dwalin would be at Thorin’s back for years to come.

 

* * *

 

Constantly being in each other’s presence bred familiarity between them, and three years after that first fateful meeting, Dwalin and Thorin were firm friends and companions. Thorin was less ‘The Heir Under the Mountain’ around Dwalin, and the bigger dwarf found himself revising his first opinion of the prince. Thorin was not haughty, though he could be arrogant, aloof, but still present. Sometimes Thorin could be cruel or absentminded, but he was also kind and compassionate and he truly cared for the plights and joys of his people. Thorin was at least a little spoiled, but also fierce and protective and Dwalin loved him. Not that he would ever let the other dwarf know, of course, Dwalin told himself every day.

His oath lasted until the exact moment that, after having beaten him in a private sparring fight, Dwalin had pinned him to the dusty arena floor and, instead of yielding, Thorin had leaned up and kissed him. Afterwards the prince had laughed at the ease with which his ploy let him wrest back control from Dwalin, but he had kissed him again. He kept on kissing him, until Dwalin no longer remembered why he ought to be angry with Thorin’s underhanded methods.

 

For years, Dwalin’s world was bright smiles and Thorin’s hands and the light of young love and exploration. If the smiles dimmed with worry when Thrór came up in conversation or Thorin’s hand often gripped his too tightly when they stood together in the Throne Room, Dwalin did not mention it.

Then the dragon came.


End file.
